ApcalypticIntroduction
by Brendan Gifford
Summary: The Big apple going pear shaped, causing it's inhabitants to freak out and add to the commotion. Reagen has sectioned the island off, ordered the army to deal with the problem and also put media black out nation wide. Only one man can save save a few.


Apocalyptic

Book of Alpha

Chapter 1

Brief Introductions

1985-January 15th

Police were met with rioting and violence due to the murders and shootings that had swept the papers late last year; there was a chant within the confusion "Save the streets!"

January 17th

The violence in the city was unstoppable.

People were starting fires, murders and robberies in broad daylight and the army today couldn't deal with the amount of gunfire from crowds and rooftops.

And in the midst of the NYPD fire fight, Bernie Goetz, the possible reason for the mayhem in New York at the moment escaped police custody and is speculated to be plotting something for the big apple.

January 25th

President Reagan released a statement today, "New York is a mess. And it is with a heavy heart that I order a perimeter of the capital and enforce patrols around the island 24/7.

We shall see if the storm can die down."

January 26th

Gunfire and explosions were heard today from military forces holding the line of their HQ in the city; it is believed that the police department is wiped out.

January 27th

Present

I woke up, like I had been brought back to life.

No recollection of where I was, I looked around.

I was lying in a dusty apartment, windows boarded, electricity off and no signs of life.

I tried to lift myself up but instead found the pain of a wound I had sustained.

It was deep, looking into it made me nauseous and unsettled.

I held myself faintly, taking caution in my rise and finally walking with ease.

Glancing over the once treasured home, that now only housed spiders and forgotten memories.

The only object that stuck out was a pillow on the sofa; it wasn't dusty more newly placed like myself in the room.

My gaze fixed on the door. The door itself didn't really stand out due to the new dusty coating which gripped the atmosphere of the room tightly.

I walked towards the door, ready to embrace the outside.

My hand on the handle, twisted then released.

The door opened by it self, the breeze from outside had nudged the door ajar.

I walked into the hallway realising this open space was overshadowed by the immense hole to the left of my stance.

Upon walking towards the gaping circle of light, I noticed that there were skyscrapers in the distance, and also flames leaping from even closer buildings and finally reaching the mound in the opening, the view was that I was given was that of astonishment.

I found myself atop an apartment building, looking out into the lower side of Manhattan.

From what I could see from the glimpse, the police department was boarded up with the lights on inside, the street was fraught with fighting and panic and the street itself was boarded off.

And just as I was defining these features, I hear a call.

I shake my head, to find at the bottom of the street, an officer.

He yells at me to get over to where he was, now.

My reaction was confusion, then confidence in my own plan.

I clearly saw that the buildings were descending in height, but upon further inspection the rooftop I noticed that the buildings themselves were in poor condition, as if the slightest change in weight distribution would collapse these buildings.

As I now took my final look at my goal, the policeman was still calling me, but instead frightened as he flailed his arms.

And then my attention bolted to the figure behind me, a tattooed, blood drenched psycho.

My instincts told me to stand and fight but my legs clearly overpowered it.

As my first leap onto the building had finished, the building I first found myself on was already creaking.

The man behind me craving my end as he hounded me, and the buildings around me collapsing and breaking under the sheer hysteria of this moment in time and then as I started thinking ahead I saw the gap, the slightest change in pattern was now my largest and final hurdle, I leaped…

Rocketing from the ledge, I pounced upon the safe point with my body still intact.

The man stared into my chest, I looked down.

Although I had kept constant supervision on my wound and it was clearly not working, I hadn't noticed that I too wore the same cloth of that of the NYPD.

The man embraced me, the mystery lacing the very air in which the last five minutes occurred.

He released.

Before he could release sound the maniac had just jumped towards the ledge.

We both shuffled into the inner recesses of this complex, further confined into the never ending stairwell and infinite rooms until we dashed into a door.

As I fell to the floor from exhaustion the officer began bolting the door and sieving through a luggage bag.

The room I had merely slumped in was actually his home, it wasn't at all dusty but still in bad shape.

There was food stacked high in one corner with books in the other, no bed just a pillow and a blanket in the closet.

Now standing, as I offered my hand to my protector the very door which was shielding us now had been punched through and wood shards resembling tiny daggers flew into the face of my accomplice, he roared in pain as he knelt on the carpet

I looked at his bag and lying neatly within the very centre of my gaze was a gun.

The image "Dirty Harry" Sprung to mind as I held the 44 magnum in both my hands, the barrel alone was 8 inches and I could feel the overkill running through my veins as my fingers cuddled the trigger.

I turned to the door, with a smug grin and poised the iron sight at the deranged killer's head and pulled tight.

In the midst of my schoolboy cockiness, I hadn't even thought of the recoil on these hand cannons as it sent me and my target hurling to the ground.

My entire body now seared with agony as the blast from my fingertips had ruptured something important.

My friend picked me up from his downed status and spoke, "I gon' get you some help, you stay here!" I finally plucked speech from my throat, "Wasn't planning on leaving".

I got a clearer image of his face; he was in his thirties, African American and had short hair which didn't really follow the shape of his head.

He was about to leave me in his invaded sanctuary when he handed me the Revolver, "Just in case" also slotting a SIG P220 in his holster.

He kicked down the door and put me in the closet and he ran off upstairs then downstairs, I could hear it all from the confines of the box within a box within a big box that I have wound up in.

Before he was completely gone I heard him shout to me in a cheery tone "Welcome to New York pal!"

As the thoughts of any person in this situation drained away like the blood from my stomach, I began to lose consciousness.

My last remaining cognition bubbled and boiled in the back of my head as my eyes rolled into my skull, "My ass is sore…."

Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This) – Eurhythmics

I woke up, like I had been brought back to life.

No recollection of where I was, I looked around.

I was in a mist of purple haze, with shadowy figures drawing closer then evaporating into thin air.

I spun round as the figures got closer, and then one jumped out of its silhouette.

It was the psycho I saw earlier, he had a rag round his neck torn at the back, probably the remains of a cape.

His face had claw marks from below his brow down to his jaw line; he had steel toe capped boots and ripped cargo shorts.

There was no shirt left; in its place was a display of blood and burn marks.

He leapt at me, I did nothing.

He cackled into the sky and ravaged my face….

Chapter 2 

The Conversationalist

I woke up, like... "Ah fuck this; Déjà vu takes the fucking cake!"I grunted.

"Wish I had cake, cake and ammo."A faint, familiar voice called out from the shadows.

It was the officer; he was sitting back against a wall while counting the bullets he had left with one hand and supporting his shrine to Clint Eastwood in the other.

"Where are we?" replying to his sarcastic comment.

He raised his head, "Near the last bastion of law enforcement, that's where."

As his last sound of vocabulary touched my eardrums, a flashlight turned on.

It washed the very walls around us with the comforting Ghostly White aura emitting from its bulb.

We were in an abandoned house; a Molotov had hit the roof and burned it pretty badly.

It was late and incredibly dark, the only source of light came off of the moon and the flashlight against the black background.

The house itself was boarded up apart from a door in the kitchen, leading to the backyard.

The silence now matching in amount to that of oxygen, I broke the silence like a twig.

"So what's your name?"I asked.

"My name's Roland Brock, you?"

"I have no idea."

"Why don't you know?"Brock retorted.

I explained "Before you saw me standing up in that gaping hole in that apartment building, I had only woken up."

"Wait, what happened before you were in that apartment building?"

"I don't know, I can't remember anything!"

"So I guess you don't know about that wound?"

"No, how long was I out?" looking down at the now bandaged hole in my gut.

"Seven hours and don't ask about it!"

"Do you know exactly what's going on here, you know the fires and the psycho and the whole destruction that's everywhere? Did Armageddon happen?"

"Ill tell you later but for now, all you need to know is that shit is fucked up."

"Great" I said sarcastically.

Brock, now growing impatient shone his flashlight on the staircase."I got an idea".

He did not help me up; I guessed he knew that I could walk on my own.

He walked up the stairs, with his gun and large rucksack and shone the torch downstairs waiting for me.

As I followed the espier of his light I noticed its shine bouncing off some family photos.

The frame was untouched and silver; picture itself was of a father, two sons and a short mother.

The fathers stomach was rounded, possibly a beer belly. The two sons were very tall, one taller and skinnier than the other like the ying and yang of the same egg.

And the mother seemed a little distant from the rest, by now the light shone on me as Brock was now freaked out by my dissection of the now meaningless portrait.

It hurt like hell to walk but I guess pain in the short run is better than death.

For the rest of the short journey; to what Brock had planned for tonight we walked together, the only bonding we had that day.

But I was hoping to get along better throughout the night but clearly that wasn't the importance of what Brock wanted me to see.

As if this Brock person, who had apparently gone through hell to patch me up actually wanted to sit around a campfire and hold hands.

We entered the room that had been set on fire; it was in relatively good condition for a burned bedroom.

The bedroom itself only resembled its former because of the torched bed itself; apart from that the room was indistinguishable from any other.

Brock was sitting on the un-burnt side of the bed looking out of a bare window, staring into the black space, the still street below and pointing to a building in the distance.

I lowered my stance and looked for his objective in the darkness, trying to follow his vague directions was harder than trying to comprehend what has happened in the last ten hours and how the next ten will play out.

My eyes suddenly picked out a bulky shape at the very end of the street.

The shape itself wasn't interesting, the rest of the street was.

There were turned over cars and the fires that had engulfed most of my rooftop view now died as the sun hid itself from sight.

Brock was now displaying the contents of his rucksack, neatly placing each item to align in order of importance.

"Now listen, that place over there is the Police Department. It ain't usually this quiet.

My plan is that we will go out there, swiftly run toward the place, get inside and hole up in it."

"Why" I spoke in curiosity at Brock's still motiveless scheme.

"For one I need ammo..."He now waved his hand across a selection of guns, knives, blunt instruments and ammunition.

Of the selection was a cleaver, a wooden baseball bat, a pocket knife, his SIG, his Model 29 hand cannon with six bullets for the Model and 13 for the SIG.

"Bad luck" I said, trying to raise the mood a little.

"Funny man" he said in disbelief "There's a stash load in there locked up by the chief, told me to keep the key safe and use it only if needed." Now holding out the tiny key, that would help us survive what's out there.

".. Two, we could find your file and hopefully figure out who you are."

I thought of the prospect with no emotion on my face.

"Less' you want to go round' as Mr. No Name?"

Quickly dismissing the idea of actually being a ghost, "And three?"

"Well, we need a place to stay."

"What about the place where I passed out?"

"It's too risky, infested with Crazies now."

"Crazies, Brock?"

Let's Dance-David Bowie

Crazies in short were self-explanatory.

People who had sustained prolonged periods of time secluded within the last two weeks would become psychopathic.

Slowly the person would turn, start hallucinating, having nightmares until they become violent and return to a less evolved primitive state whereby they eat, sleep and scream gibberish all day long.

I interrupted "Like in the movies!"

"No you fool, pay attention!"

They ain't zombies; they just become mentally unstable really quickly.

Besides, they are not cannibals. They just kill for the fun of it I guess.

Its weird, usually it takes a lifetime of abuse to become this angry but I seen people do it in a day.

Like this hole mess is speeding it up.

These freaks all seem to hang around Central Park, plus they've taken control of the Skyscrapers.

Don't hesitate to shoot them Cuz' they wont think twice bout' ripping your face off.

They move fast and can climb buildings due to they're sudden loss of weight when they turn.

When you get an opportunity, aim for the heart, head or the legs. That way even if you don't hit any vital organs then at least he wont be going' nowhere soon.

I know this all seems so fast and a little brutal but once we get to a safe place ill tell you why you and I need to be like this.

We will need to be quiet so only use the guns if the shit hits the fan, and also make sure you don't get seen. It ain't usual for the city to be so quiet.

Brock's speech was now over, he handed me a pocket knife and his SIG.

"I hope you know how to use these." he stated before he ran downstairs and prepared for the worst.

As I heard his footsteps stop at the door in the kitchen leading to the unknown horrors that awaited us, I had a little practise.

I picked up the SIG, loaded it and aimed immediately after loading and pretended to fire the trigger, it seemed as though my strength was returning to me.

The knife on the other hand was a literal swing and miss, except the miss was a hit.

And that hit was me; I had cut my other hand while twirling the blade in a circular motion.

An order bellowed from beneath me. "You done up there?"

I ran downstairs, the pain now gone and stood by Brock's side.

"So did you know that I would be better when I woke up, is that why you didn't help me up?"

He chuckled to himself and looked at me with a healthy smile.

"Nah, I couldn't be fucked!"

Chapter 3

Storming the Gate

Brock's pre-existing sluggishness was now worrying in the back of my skull.

Could Brock actually be able to help me or hinder me, could I just be paranoid thinking two steps ahead or could I just be really cautious? The thought now delving too far, I refrained from thinking onwards and began the journey.

"Shall we open the door?"

"We shall but keep your gun out and eyes open, okay?"Brock's tone now bound with weight.

This new found importance had set the mood of the evening to be concentrated and dangerous.

Would I have to kill another man, or more than two or possibly a lot of people?

Would they be clean or brutal, would they suffer, and do these people mean something to others, the implications of my bullet in the brain of the corpse of the maniac that almost ripped my very skin in three.

I stopped this maniacal trail of thought and brought my attention to the present.

Thinking on the present I seized Brock's arm and contested, "Wait, how exactly are we going to do this?"

"Quietly and improvised ill make it up as we go, when we come across something ill try and manoeuvre around it or through it and you cover me."

Fast to dispute "How do you know I can cover you?"

"Short answer, I don't."

"Why do you trust me then?"

"I don't know but what I do know is that you should stop asking me stuff that ain't important."

And with that cold shoulder, Brock grew tired of weary of the discussion and advanced to the handle of the now influential passage.

His hand extending as my eyes followed with great notice, his fingers now resembling the common grip. The grip itself gripped the space they walked in the grip now turning to a pull, a down force of man made proportions and as the handle clicked the wooden hulk that was the kitchen door flung wide along with the outside gush that hit me like a cloud colliding with an aeroplane.

We didn't move from our spot, crouching inside the dilapidated abode in as a result of the pitch black scenery we encountered.

It appeared as though electricity was still about the city it was just that anyone with a brain would know that in a situation like this turning on a bulb would be like shouting in a game of hide and seek; except there wouldn't be another round of it.

We were in a backyard that didn't really accommodate anything in the space.

The backyard was barricaded with Cedar fence that seemed to melt with the twilight, in the yard was a kennel, a shed, a plastic slide and bad overgrowth.

The weeds seemed to grab the yard and drag it back as if nature was reclaiming land.

Almost in the very clutches of the weeds was the shed, it was painted with British racing green acrylic it felt unfinished on the grounds of the paint was patchy.

We drifted into the open, the moonlight glazed the barrel of my gun and we searched the surroundings with the iron sights.

The buildings surrounding us seemed much larger and uninspiring as they towered over the street.

I was still gathering my bearings when Brock put his hands on my shoulder and faced my with a face that looked unwavering and controlled.

"Right, there's a backdoor leading into the street. I think we should follow it, when we get to the street we'll immediately run to the opposite side until we get to the corner."

"How will we do it?"

"I'll lead and you stay behind me, when we have to cross the road I'll go first and you cover me. When I think its safe to cross ill call you. Got it?"

"Yeah I got it."

We took it slowly.

As we entered the alleyway our senses were met with a putrid abomination.

The backdoor Brock suggested lead straight into a dead body, if you could call it that.

The man had blonde, straggly hair that turned red at the end on account of the blood everywhere.

He had a hole that matched mine. It was large and circular, fairly deep and matching in size, it was like looking into another self.

Except this version of me didn't have anyone to help him and in the process of being alone he bled out and died.

All around him, the floor, the wall and himself seemed to be blood stained.

The blood also moved away into the further darkness of the alleyway. We solemnly agreed that actually staying in the open might be a better idea.

After trying not to breathe in the smell of the reapers clothes we moved into the street.

Immediately Brock pushed me against the wall with one hand, I whispered in his ear "What are you doing?"

"Looking for nice pair of shoes, what do you think? I'm looking to see if the coast is clear."

His head tuning and twisting like an owl in slow motion.

"Looks clear from where I'm standing. Stay here and cover me, watch for the rooftops and buildings and wait for my signal". And with that Brock rolled to a car and continued ahead to cross the street.

My guess was that around here there was nobody and that we would have an easy night and so I mainly studied the street and buildings not really on high alert.

The first thing I noticed was that one end of the street had cars piled up, essentially blocking off one end. It looked scaleable so why make a car pile in the first place.

All thee lampposts seem to have been tampered with at the bases, there seemed to be a lot of scratches and a small rectangular hole with wires leading out of it in the centre.

All the houses were boarded up apart from the one we just exited from.

The street itself was thin and narrow like the tall son in the picture.

There weren't many parked cars, one diagonally at the pile up, one parked quaintly at the house we came from and one more near the edge of the street.

I had just memorised my vicinity when a dodge ball collided with the right side of my face, forcing me backwards. It was Brock; he was on the corner of the street beckoning me while trying to hold him from crying with laughter.

I ran as lightly as I could over to the opposite side, then turning to Brock's direction accordingly while still running.

Moving seemed easy enough as long as jumping wasn't involved.

My wound was now ineffective to me, merely looking bad on my clothes.

As soon as I got to Brock I sneered at him. "Glad you found that funny."

"I'm glad the ball found you." Another giggle erupted from him.

"Isn't this supposed to be serious? If I had known that Bozo the clown was in New York I would have brought pies with me."

"Sorry, I hadn't laughed like that in weeks. I'll be concentrated now."

"Thank you. Got anymore bright ideas involving sports equipment?"

"Nah I ain't, but I've got an idea nonetheless. Same as last time except I'm gonna go quite far up ahead before I call you again so don't make me have to use football this time."

Once again Brock set off into the open, ducking and weaving between cars and using cover effectively.

I watched as far as I could until he disappeared out of view.

The road was more congested that the residential street, cars went on as far as the eye could see filling the tarmac to the point of bursting and spilling out onto the pavement.

Directly next to the road was Marcus Garvey Park. The trees seemed to be the last outstanding life within the city. They loomed over the brick wall that separated nature from concrete.

The gaps within the trees were filled with rusting metal sheeting that span the distance of the park itself. To the right of me was a more empty street that seemed to house only the gusts of wind that blew through every once in a while.

Now looking back on the route Brock had taken, shapes appeared that I had not noticed before.

A flat building, white, seemed to stick out in height next to the station.

The station having two floors and the white building having 7, the station was in its shadow and very hard to make out.

A lone whistle banged in my eardrum and I looked into the sea of dumped cars.

One hand raised itself, waved and lowered.

I followed trying to keep my head down, my head bobbing as I closed in on Brock's faint motion.

Further and further I scampered to the last location of my only friend.

Finally I found myself clustered between two rows of ditched station wagons, with a large Brock bent down behind a car door. I knelt down beside him. "What is it?"

Brock's face showed what he was going to say, he looked uncertain for the first time.

"Well, in that alley way is some light. I'm gonna' go check it out. I want you to stay here, keep a lookout and wait for my next signal.

"What exactly are you gonna do once you get there?"

"Like I said before I'll make it up as I go along just make sure you're safe before you get to me, ok?"

"Ok." I moaned.

Brock tenderly glanced up at me, got up and wandered cautiously into the distance.

I tried to watch his very last movements up until he got round the corner and out of view.

After he left to "overcome the obstacle" I sat staring into the darkness for about 2 minutes, until I decided to get a closer look at what was hiding behind the metal sheeting.

As soon as I got up pins and needles attacked my leg and made we wobble and fall face first on the pavement. To add to the red mark from the rubber ball I had now scrapped the same side, I was now hoping that thunder would not strike my face in the next ten hours.

Recovering from my tedious fall, I hopped over the brick wall.

My face stung awfully and put me off doing anything that involved movement, but alas I carried on like the phantom of the opera and leaned on the tree also peering in through a gap.

My pupils expanded when they uncovered the activity going on in the park.

Men and women were on all fours eating human remains, some were just leaping around going berserk and others were fighting like wild animals.

A corner of this battle camp had been turned into a bone yard with a pile of bones that raised 3ft high. A tree away from the commotion of the hysterical citizens had a horrifying impact on my psyche.

A man was twitching and chocking because he had a noose round his neck and was dying as I watched in fear.

I turned away in disgust and vomited directly into the grass, getting splash back on my face.

It had finally occurred to me that society in the capital had crumbled, that there are no laws or boundaries that governed the public on this island from wreaking havoc but now people can commit sin freely and easily. I could die.

Once more I pulled my self together, clearing the sick from my lips and the panic from my head I walked away from the scene cruel cannibalistic feast.

My face still stinging I laid down in the same spot that Brock had crouched in previously.

Contemplating what id just seen I figured it best to keep quiet about the discovery and just focus on dealing with my scratched cheek, so that Brock is not tempted to "Make it up as he goes along" again.

Secretly, all the while Brock had been gone I had worried what he could be doing.

I honestly thought of various scenarios that could happen, he could come across a gang and defend himself either till he bit the dust or escaped, come across hapless survivors and Brock could brutally murder them or even he could just be either leaving me for dead or he could be a leader to a group of killers and be meeting up with them to use me as a puppet until they were finished with me.

For a third time I snapped to my senses and started thinking about what kind of person I was.

Was I really a paranoid coward that trusted know one, not even the only companion I had in the world, a person who risked his own life for the well-being of mine.

I had now stopped thinking about anything, remained silent even in my mind and tried to guess how many minutes it had been since Brock left me until I heard panting.

I looked over the car door to find Brock running back to me with blood on his uniform with a now panic-stricken face.

He arrived to my side, out of breath trying to recover.

"Brock, what the hell happened!"

"There was a tattooed guy … with a bloody wrench … pierced all over … he was trying to warm up over a fire in a dustbin…"

"So what, you just had a brawl with him!"

"No… just one swift hit to the head. I snuck up on him, swung and his cranium exploded, luckily I only get a bit on my shirt. I don't think it'll come out though."

"D you think that was right to do?"

"Course, he had a bloody weapon and wasn't very apologetic."

"Well what took you so long?"

Without a pause Brock responded "Burned the corpse so they weren't any mess like the guy we found in the alley."

I felt he was truthful "Oh… ok."

"By the way I'm sick of this espionage bullshit, think we should just sprint it man, what d you think?"

"Fuck it! I'm tired of being sneaky to. Let's do it."

"Okay, but you still have to cover me and be quiet when we're inside."

"It goes without saying."

"Good. There's a fence we'll have to vault once we get there, the place is boarded shut. Then when we're over we'll climb in through the window, ill turn on the torch and we'll search the station. Go right ahead after me."

He dashed around the car and sped down the street while I scurried behind.

We met the wall with gratification as a result of our frantic run through the black like mice in the maze … the cheese being whatever is in the complex in front.

Upon closer inspection of the building bullet holes were frequent across all sides, glass broken but still intact in a few places and the blue stripes on the 2nd floor clashed with a burn mark that curved onto the roof itself.

The wood that guarded the station was nailed in hard but not actually in many place, probably so that people inside could aim their weapons to defend the building.

To think that the police went down fighting was truly inspiring me to honour the battles that took place here.

I had forgotten to follow Brock immediately after getting here so I fell behind in the process.

I vaulted the fence with ease as if the memorial to us peace keepers had actually boosted my performance. I had arrived when Brock had already found a dumpster to get on top of and was opening the window.

He looked at me puzzled "Well come on then!" before climbing in and thumping into the floor afterwards. I lifted myself up onto the dumpster and was about to follow when I looked at a message inscrolled on the side of the wall at the further end of the alleyway.

"BEWARE OF THE SUBWAY VIGILANTE!"

Chapter 4

Vacant Inquiry

The darkness within the station against the window created a spooky effect that set an eerie feel to the room.

It felt like it was a relic. As I fell in through the only entry point that required minimal force, I saw a low fog reaching round into the corridor.

I recovered from my drop to find that I was alone; I think Brock made his way directly to the armoury. I on the other hand had a rummage through the first room I encountered, out of curiosity.

Finding the cabinet filled with the officer listings was lucky, considering the last 8 and a half hours.

Searching through the cabinet was a bore yet at the same time life changing, weirdly enough there were more guys with surnames beginning with W than A or B.

By now I had been trawling through government paperwork for three hours, Brock had returned earlier with an assortment of weapons.

I had now lost all faith of finding my name and my constant boost of energy to finding my identity was now gone, Brock was fast asleep and morning would come soon.

I was halfway through the folder marked W when I finally found a photograph that meant something, not a hollow pause in time.

My mind froze in sheer excitement of what was between these card flaps. My fingers started twitching uncontrollably, trying to control themselves as they shook the paper inside the frail cradle. Rushing the situation I pulled a paper out and stared deep into the ink.

Peter Williams. The name echoed within my mind, through my ears and out into the air around me filling the space. I repeated it constantly, and not once in succession did the name lose meaning.

At last I now had an identity and I could start to fix the big apple.

In my fit of paroxysm I woke Brock up from his unfathomable slumber, his reflexes jaded due to this imperative exhaustion.

He was less than happy to be cut short of his deserved break, reacting with a primordial grunt that showed a more human side to Brock that showed he needed me like I needed him. 

Shrugging off the morning sun Brock eagerly wanted a response to the search I deployed nearly 4 hours ago.

"Peter Williams" I cried insisting a high five and instead was left hanging in playful dismay.

Brock had disagreed "It don't suite you none, but I guess it's the only one you got."

"Listen, now that you've got you're ammo and hardware and I've got a surname and forename, I was kinda hopin for some answers."

"Well I said I would, and I will."

One Step Beyond-Madness

It all started when a string of crimes came in involving African Americans attack white folk, and one guy didn't want to end up like the four tombstones before him so when they went for him he pulls out a revolver.

Guy's name is Bernie Goetz, aged 38 he shoot four muggers with an unlicensed firearm.

We arrested him and waited for a trial, in that time he exercised ferociously to the extent of gaining a six pack within two weeks!

While we are waiting for trial, a riot starts outside the court in town.

Next thing we know is reports come in of a raging fire consuming downtown and mass murders outside; this rookie overhears the radio and runs outside for god knows what.

Before he laid 6 steps out the door his body becomes a lead weight.

After the kid hit the floor gunfire hit the walls and this place became a hell storm and no one could get out so we fought for 2 straight hours, another twenty minutes into the shootout an explosion erupted from the cells.

I dash in there and someone shouts that Goetz got away and that someone else has gone after him. I chased him down to that street when I lost track of him and decided to hide in my apartment for about a week. I could hear all the distress outside but I couldn't do anything about it.

Then when the noise died down to a low undertone of sirens I decided to go to the roof to get a view of the situation, I skim the horizon to see the how bad the shit had hit the fan when I see you out of the corner of my eye stumbling out of a hole in the roof two blocks down.

And the rest is history, as far as I know the entire city is like this apart from a makeshift army base with no evac plans constantly fighting each day.

Don't think of trying to escape though, Reagan's set up a firing patrol round the entire island and the bridges have been demolished.

That Goetz planned the shootout, the explosion and the riots, I want revenge for the kid who ended up takin thirty bullets for the force.

I think we can track him down, it'll take a couple of days but if we persist we can…

A lone ball of metal traversed through the wood of the boarded window and caressed the hairline of Brock's head, returning to its propelling motion into an exact copy of the cabinet my hands first searched.

Brock turned battle-ready instantaneously, grabbing a custom painted Spaz-12.

I tumbled over a desk for protection, cowering in fear. The paint job itself was a mini replica of the spitfire paint job commonly given by us in the war.

"Get up Pete, I can't do this alone!"

Time to make a stand, Brock offered his shotgun as I turned to the door leading to the upstairs.

The recoil from his hand cannon alone sent my entire body flying backwards and forcing me to a crawl, I took the logical and less painful route of using the gun he gave me.

Pacing myself I rushed for the clearest view to the chaotic start of my day, I entered the open view of the 2nd floor out of the stairway and into the light of the office facing the street directly from the corner.

As I bustled to the window Brock had already let loose his first slug, out from beneath my view four young men in suits scrambled from the locked double doors and into the sea of disused autos.

Desperately trying to prove my abilities, I fixed my aim on the foot of an assailant sticking out from the back of a tire.

The foot of the enemy, dressed in Winkle picker boots. Toes dancing in their armour, my fingers showed no remorse and fired.

They broke the momentary silence as the target yelped and that coordinated the rest of the group to return fire.

As if the heavens opened and god had an armed guard, the bullets came thick and fast.

Destroying everything in their path, shots had hit the photo of my file between the eyes.

I hadn't stuck my head up since I fired earlier; I wasn't as gung-ho as I thought I would be.

Brock called up to me as the smartly dressed invaders reloaded.

"Pete, I ain't wasting ammo. Unless they come to the door I ain't gonna fire, you're gonna have to shoot these guys."

I needed either a pep talk or Dutch courage, neither Jack Daniels nor a Team Captain with the same name were in the room with me.

I guess I had to do this on my own, it was just that Brock had always been there as my guardian angel.

Now was time to prove myself, adrenaline pumped through my veins and I glared out into the battlefield.

They clearly didn't have firearms training, one of them had given up on loading and started to crowd round his partners.

As a gap appeared revealing the gut of this tuxedo eccentric, I fired two rounds into the shirt pocket he had visible directly stopping his heart.

The others were blind firing while the other writhed in pain as the fluids drained from his palm.

I decided to not add to the growing body count that would probably rise to ten at least before I had a rest again.

Another hand lifted itself from the wreckage of a rusted two-seater and then proceeded to miss the whole clip.

He retracted the hand and repeated the reload sequence when I shot through the fibre metal of the vehicle hitting him in the neck, cutting off all speech and rendering him dead within seconds.

The fourth gunman had realised that he was alone and retreated 5 blocks backwards, until his final sound was made as he turned down a street and found the barrel of a hidden assassin.

That gunshot had signalled the end of the shooting, immediately I checked how many bullets I had left.

6 left in the clip and 3 sitting in the curvature of my pocket, I had killed four people in 24 hours and the world had just ignored my act of self defence.

My actions had no media related consequences, only personal.

Looking back at the window I noticed that no boards were left in there place, all had been chipped away by the four mysterious casino goers.

The building was in poor condition, had no food and was likely to be raided again and again.

I dragged my feet ion the stairs and looking Brock in the eye with distain at the killing that was carried out.

"Hey I understand man, but we gotta do this to survive. This is the least of our worries; we now gotta find a new place Cuz I ain't waiting here till the rescue party comes while we fight against James Bond doubles."

"Well where should we go?"

"We could try the Army?"

"No, we'd get shot dead before we even get there."

"Well Pete, what else is there?"

I tried to keep up but sadly I didn't have an answer "Exactly! Now I know I'm going there, but are you?"

"No, I just can't make it that far."

"So what you gonna do? Wander around until someone decides to feed you with food instead of buckshot."

"No, ill make my way to the subway!"

"With less bullets then sense, no you're coming with me."

"Brock I'm not a baby, I can take care of myself!"

"Go hide underground and wait for the light to hit your and wait for the light to hit your eyes so you can see what's going on, I'm outta here!"

Brock stormed out of the station about to disappear, I had to say something.

"Brock, wait!"

He stood still in the middle of the desolate road, with the sun rising in the sky coating the city in gold.

"I'll need a better gun than this; can you give me a shotgun?"

He hesitated understandably at first but his strides towards me now became normal.

"Take this; it has 40 slugs in it. Try not to get yourself killed and meet me near the Army base in a nearby building, you'll have to search a bit harder than the files though."

"You better not get killed yourself!"

Brock strolled into the sunrise with a grin on his face and enough weaponry to take down a small country.

I on the other hand now had to fend for myself, remembering the encampment of meat eaters I discovered last night I decided to hastily move in its opposite direction.

I didn't feel ready to tackle whatever is out there but I know I've got to try, besides I can't ruin the only moment where I had risen to the occasion by running back and pleading Brock to hold my hand.

The first thing I had to do was eat something, the identity crisis and the gunfight managed to stave off starvation but now my belly became a roaring animal howling at the moon.

I though about trying to find a map, luckily a tourist stand seemed to be the only thing untouched by the madness going on.

It seemed to stand out between the apartments and attorneys at law, bright pink and florescent yellow covered all items on this tourism stand.

A map was sprawled out on the poorly constructed table, taking it was harmless and theft wasn't a 5 year stretch in a lawless place.

I remember feeling ecstatic before passing out on the pavement, hitting the ground and seeing bugs scatter into the cracks of its surface.

Rock the Kasbah-The Clash

I woke up with my face in the floor; lifting my view upwards I am now in a red room with red flooring and red everything.

Brock is now hunched and looking at me with white eyes growling at me, he hits me and I feel it.

I pull away and he is gone.

Streaks of black and white drip down from the ceiling, one droplet gets in my eye and I go berserk trying to tear my eye out with my fingernails.

I scowl at the wall and shout at my highest volume, then continue to repeatedly hit the walls trying to escape this nightmare.

Then as I hit the wall my blows now returning to a weird wobble of my arm, the wall now turns into one of the people I shot with the suits on.

I'm now in the street where his death took place, cars littered all around me covered in blood splatter and black and white smears.

He's dead but my hands don't stop, I grab his lifeless body and head butt him.

His face now resembles nothing of its former, I try to stop but my hands deny my command and reach for the knife that Brock gave me.

It appeared out of nowhere and the metal blade itself was coloured Misty purple like the last dream I had.

My hands now forcing it to my heart, I push as hard as a man physically can against my limbs and throw it away under a car.

Then finally my hands decompose in clear view, I cringe at the sight of my stumps and cannot take much more. I see the gun the now disfigured man held before his time ran out, lying there calling to me. I wish to pick it up and pull the trigger put I have no fingers or thumbs.

Brock appears once again, except his body is now a walking skeleton.

His flesh is pierced with bullet holes, and beaming from those holes is more misty purple.

His face riddled with excess flesh stretched in different directions due to the bullets shot at him from god knows when.

He bends for the gun and engulfs it a violent morph, I now cannot take sight of anything anymore and decide to run away when I turn back to see the monster he is now in front of me, baseball bat in hand now swinging maniacally at me.

I avoid the first few barely then I contact with the wood and fall, my body now dead but he still continues.

Kill me already!

Chapter 5

The Wanderer

Opening my eyes was one of the hardest things I ever did that day, especially as opening them was worse than closing them shut for eternity.

Suicide was the easy way out, Brock couldn't find me and surely know one else knew me.

But as the human will kicked in I thought best to find shelter before the next knife-wielding lunatic comes along to see a still target to shank.

Laying still in the middle of open season in New York was more comfortable than I had expected, it seems the shoddy builder's work of the sidewalk complimented my facial structure and more or less held my face as I fell.

Raising myself for the 3rd time I found myself behind a kiosk that didn't really conform to its larger counterparts. Almost every single building had been poached apart from a solitary corner shop that looked relatively unscathed.

I let my guard down once more, seeing as there was no sound apart from myself for miles.

Strolling through the emptiness was rather daunting; the whole area was devoid of life.

Every footstep provoked a new thought, do I have a family, where are my parents, why a police officer, why New York?

I grew weary of the depressing multiplexes that looked at my in sorrow from on high and stayed on the right side of the road on the pavement under shade instead of the middle of the road and risked being spotted by something with a far less cheerful demeanour than mine.

All the buildings seemed the same, even if they had different purposes.

The corner shop now seconds away I breathed far more naturally than ever, my lungs released from an unseen chain.

The first thing that hit me was its colour, sky blue. All other buildings I had come across had ranged from a rusty bronze to spooky grey. The gumball machines had all but been stolen, the gumballs missing, the metal release mechanism broken and the on show glass was cracked round the sphere.

I lost interest in the smashed childhood figure and moved on to my growing hunger, the very idea of nourishment fuelled my remaining leg strength. The doorframe was empty and inside bares a perfectly normal business.

The cash register was untouched, no thieving hands had been laid, the shelves recently re-stocked and the floor was squeaky clean. Cheap Abraxo cleaner filled the air with an American advertisement scent. Most of the products on sale were not from here. The exotic crisps were Jamaican, the portly beer from Germany and various other products from either Mexico or Indonesia.

It was like Wal-Mart was the surviving grocery store of America, as if they would save us all.

My instincts pointed me in the warm corner of the shop, my eyes shot to a distinct shelf 4th up from the floor. A single glint in the yellow packaging, God was talking to me from a plastic casing.

My lips quivered, my tongue flapped wildly and my taste bud were aflame.

Custard Creams. I snatched them like a greedy child from the imprisonment of the store's shelf.

I thought best to stash them on my person before tucking into them; I nabbed a bottle of Optimator and held the thought of eating and drinking in the comfort of my brain.

I thought it best not to steal more as my conscience was weighing me down, even though my logical brain said " You just killed 4 people and your not even remembering! And besides, know one is here!" A greyish door with red bold letters was left ajar.

I approached the door with caution, upholstering my SIG that was already battle hardened along with my grip and aim that had relaxed with the handle. With one hand I aimed the shooter at the door and the other reached for the handle with great curiosity.

Immediately I charged in with my eyes closed and hit my hip on the small desk that accompanied the monitor. The room was cramp, only one person at a time was physically allowed in.

The room was covered in newspaper clippings, but all the clippings were covered with sister clippings and that made all information obscure.

On the desk was a crimson book, torn at the edges from overuse. No title claimed the book; I peered in with even greater curiosity. The pages were blank for a brief moment then my eyes focused.

The first thing that hit me was the book was dated, a diary. Next was that they are also hour specific, ranging from the 27th of yesterday to an hour ago today.

They were about stock being taken from the shop to an undisclosed location.

I saved a passage from it for a long time within my memory.

January 27th, 06:30.

I have just managed to find this place, seems comfortable.

I also found many families in here, I told them it wasn't safe here and that they would be raided.

I gave them my word that I would find them a place to stay and I would guard this place and give them food from here, listing in here my encounters and the food taken.

They had lost so many people it was unbearable.

I'll find a place for them to stay in about 10 minutes, after that I'll uphold my promise.

They better make it out of this; there are only 14 of them left.

I told them that if I do not return that someone else should take my place, but I swore that I would return before my time was up.

Must leave now, gotta make sure that they will get out of here soon… I hope.

I picked up the diary in hope of meeting the kind person who did all that for these people.

A noise came from the exterior of the shop; I rushed out to the forecourt to check.

A man's running could be heard outside.

I ran out to confront the person.

Still there was no sound to make apart from my own. I walked into the middle of the street slowly, trying to act brave in the face of uncertainty. I followed Brocks advice and scoured the rooftops.

Just as I thought that I had just been imagining things a massive explosion took up the gap that the silence had left.

The magnitude of it sent glass shattering from all buildings within range, I almost shattered as well.

It had swept me off my feet and not in a romantic way, more off the glided into a brick wall and met with great pain at the end. A new fire was born from the implosion that had occurred and starting eating away at all the dreary buildings that looked down upon the corner shop, its own little revenge.

Moving seemed to activate all my previous injuries, my face now singing my sensory glands, my wrist now seared at the sight of it and worst of all my hole in my belly raged on like the fire behind me.

I could move, but movement was agony. Surprisingly the only thing still intact was the food on my person; at least I could die while pigging out.

Desperately I looked for shelter, shifting my head as Brock did but not as the owl more like the vole.

At last!

Away from the scorched earth was a stairway leading into the floor.

Before lurking New York Transport systems, I checked to see if anything else I had survived the mini-nuke.

My shotgun was in pieces, probably cushioning me from death by impact, apart from that and the now useless slugs everything else was fine.

I wandered down the deserted street and hoped for the best.

10 minutes on from the colourful array of destruction I had managed to fumble down 2 flights of stairs into a ticket stand. The only thing that stood out here was the insane amount of graffiti on the walls, all either spelling the end of days or beware the subway.

I guess people really thought of these, as a few were hand drawn in blood.

Nursing a brand new headache, I peered out from the smoky glass to get a better picture of the subway.

I had never used public transport as far as I can recall, my memory was growing but not in a way that made sense, I could remember weird mannerisms and odd likes and dislikes but I had no memory of family, friends or even origin of anything.

The lights still worked down here, a maintenance worker with a sense of duty perhaps?

I needed something to reduce the pain or take my mind off it; I reached into my inner jacket and took a swig of the German beer and a broken Custard Cream.

My consuming guess had been correct; my pain was now a million miles away from me.

I could now walk again and reflex my muscles; I gripped my SIG with encouraging strength.

Opening the door made a loud creak, stopping me dead in my aching tracks.

I looked down the next flight of stairs and saw a worrying trail of blood that covered most of that floor.

I felt tired from being frightened of any sort of danger; I followed the red path with courage.

The tracks now took the form of many red footsteps that ended at the door of the disabled toilets on the lower floor.

I opened it without hesitation. The only momentary lapse in forward motion was seeing the red handprint engraved on the push part of the door.

It was unimaginable, the stalls were filled to the brim with bodies, and the walls were now red with a hint of white.

The only image that comes to mind is Auschwitz.

I stepped out calmly after briefly stepping in.

I walked back into the ticket stand, laid down on the floor and fell asleep.

I had a good seven hours sleep before I woke up again, and I was never disturbed once.


End file.
